


Take What You Can Get (in Advance, if Possible)

by BlackMajjicDuchess



Category: The Blood of Nerys
Genre: Blood, Evil Bitches and Their Pathetic Minions, F/M, Gambling, Genetics, Hangover, Science, Science Fiction, Self-Hatred, Will Do Anything for Money (or Sex)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:36:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9304547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackMajjicDuchess/pseuds/BlackMajjicDuchess
Summary: He's the kind of guy who breaks in to rob a guy and finds him already dead.Who moves into the dead guy's apartment (hey, free rent!) and goes broke anyway.Who can get the girl of his dreams to sleep with him, but really it's because she pays him to kill for her.Who is hated by everyone, but by none so much as himself.His luck is -that- terrible. But who the fuck cares anyway?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The terrible agony of existing](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=The+terrible+agony+of+existing).



> The fandom isn't situated yet, but the book can be found here: https://books.pronoun.com/the-blood-of-nerys/

His head had been cleaved in two, stomped into the earth, and pissed on. Of this, he was absolutely certain. And when his eyes opened and the light filtered in, he was equally certain that it was the wrath of the gods that seared his mind, not your average run of the mill morning sunshine. He did the only thing any sane person would do… he shut his eyes, snarled into his pillow, and tried to go back to sleep.

That was when he remembered. The reason for his malaise. How he had earned the wrath of those gods. “Fuck.”

He’d lost again. As he usually did, over and over and over. He only kept losing, no matter how many times his friends cautioned him against even playing, no matter how many times he was bone-sure that he would win the next one. He kept playing and he kept losing, and his friends revolved in and out of his life, disposable faces that couldn’t abide the scum of Bergeron Nacht.

It had been months since he’d won anything and he was destitute. Couldn’t even afford the booze that had blessed him with the splitting headache he had. Money was getting harder to find. He wasn’t above stealing, but the socioeconomic class of the area wasn’t exactly rolling in it. Stealing from the rich was damned near impossible. The more money they had, the taller they built their homes. Taller homes meant distant money. They kept their valuables in the highest room in the tallest tower, locked away like a virgin princess. Not even worth it. Either he would be captured creeping through their homes, or he’d find some way to crash the whole tower down on his head.

He might deserve death, but he didn’t seek it.

For the next several hours, Bergeron Nacht drifted in and out of consciousness. He didn’t exactly have a full schedule. The perk of being a poor drunk of ill repute was that no one ever came looking for him.

Unless Zanje had a use for him. As it turned out, today was one of those days. Her bid for entry was less of a polite request and more of a demand. She pounded on the door in time to the pulsing in his skull. “Berge!” she snapped. That voice of hers cut through all the fog in his brain, rendering him instantly awake, if shakily so.

“Fuck off,” he growled into his pillow.

_ Knock knock knock. _ “BERGE!”

“What?!” he yelled back from his bed.

_Knock knock knock._ _“BERGE!”_

He lifted his head from the pillow and glared towards the door as if she could see his face from there. “For gods’ sake woman,  _ WHAT?!” _

She wasn’t going to dignify him with speaking through a door. He waited, hoping she’d just go away. Then she knocked again. At least she didn’t shriek. His face fell back to the pillow. He considered just ignoring her and waiting for her to leave, but… then he remembered that she had a lot of money, and his current situation left him without. He threw the tatty blanket back and jerked the greasy sheet around his body, barely covering but completely uncaring. He staggered the short distance from his bed to the only door in his shabby apartment—no more than an abandoned hole he’d been squatting in, probably due to the dead guy that occupied it when he’d sneaked in to steal from him. He nearly lost his footing and fell flat on his face, but he made it. It felt like a small victory, and that in turn only pissed him off. He never could win when it mattered.

He turned the locking mechanism and yanked the door open, immediately regretting it as the sunlight poured in. He hissed and squinted, hiding his head behind a hand on the doorframe. “What do you want, Zanj?”

“Did you win this time?” she clipped.

“Obviously. The movers have already toted all of my belongings to my new castle on the hill. Wanna move in?” He grinned, slowly opening one eye to adjust to the light.

All he saw was a raised eyebrow, sharply arched. Zanje Vangelic was all angles, the sharper the better. There was nothing soft about her. She didn’t mince words, ignored his remark, and dove straight for the jugular. “Need money?”

He sobered up immediately, stood straighter in the doorway and finished opening the door. “Yeah.”

She brushed past him into his distasteful hovel. She’d been there before, and wasted no time commenting on the state of his life. She didn’t have to. The smell spoke for her, somewhere between unwashed body and dead body, courtesy of both former and current occupant. He was never more starkly aware of how devolved his life had become as when there was an attractive woman in his apartment. He shut the door, and the moment it slammed shut she smiled at him. Of course, he knew she wasn’t really smiling for him. The predatory look in her eye could only mean one thing. “I’ve done it.”

He didn’t care. Her pet project had never meant anything to him, other than that it was a good source of income. Sometimes. “Oh yeah?”

She nodded. “Have I ever told you about the genetics of people?”

She had, a thousand times, but he never could understand it. What he did retain he drowned with alcohol on a daily basis. “Yeah.”

“Well, we’re not exactly the same from person to person. Our hair color, eye color, skin color… all of it is encoded in genetics.”

He bit back a yawn. “Yeah.”

“Our  _ blood _ is different, Berge.”

He frowned. “So, are you paying me to listen to you then? Because that isn’t cheap.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she took the hint and hurried along. “I’ve figured out that there are different types of blood, like suits in your maddening card games. Yours might be different from mine, so if they were to mix, we might get sick.”

“So my dreams of impregnating you won’t ever come true, then?” he joked.

She shot him a severe look. “It doesn’t work that way. That’s a different topic entirely. No, I mean your  _ actual _ blood. Like if I were to slit your throat and watch you bleed to death.”

His jaw ticked.

“And then give you my blood to try to save you from bleeding to death.” She smirked.

It didn’t make him feel any better. But he understood now. “Can you just tell me how I’m getting paid so I can go back to bed?”

“No sleep for you, Bergeron. You’ve got work to do. There are eight kinds of blood out there, and I need all of them to start studying this disease. I’m so close now to finding a cure.”

He smiled ruefully. “So now we’re the heroes in this tale, eh? Wasn’t exactly how I envisioned myself, but alright.”

“No, Berge. We’re the villains.”

“But you said—“

“How did you think I was going to pay you?”

He thought about it. “I suppose I was hoping for sex.” It had been a very long time.

She ignored his advance, as she always did. “I’m going to find the cure, and then we’re going to sell it.” Her smile was marvelously pleased.

It dawned on him then, what she meant. And then all he saw were the glimmers of gold on the horizon. Lots and lots of it. He wouldn’t even need to play the game then. Or maybe he would, and then he could increase their income twofold. Threefold, perhaps!

“You’re thinking of gambling it away,” she observed unhappily.

“No, I’m thinking of hitting the fucking jackpot. We could multiply everything we make by a hundred or more. Do you have any idea how much money that is?”

She crossed her arms. “You can do whatever you want with your share. I’ll give you twenty-five percent.”

He stiffened, insulted. “Fifty. We’re partners in this. You need me.”

“Twenty, then. We’re not getting a penny without the work I’ve already done, and there are years of that.”

“Fine, forty.”

_ “Twenty.” _

“Forty.” He dove onto the barely-there mattress and snuggled into the sheets. “Forty or you can go find your own sad sacks of blood.”

She was silent for a moment, her boot toe tapping against the dusty floorboards. “How about thirty?” she compromised, her voice soft.

He grinned into the pillow. “Thirty-five.”

She sighed. “Alright.”

He felt her disdain for him crawling over his shoulder, knew that the moment she thought he was replaceable, he’d be slowly dying in one of her cages and she’d find herself a new bloodhound. That only meant he needed to be very, very good, better than anyone else she could find. It was a good thing he didn’t have any scruples left. The reason he was so skilled at being a hateful person was because he already hated himself more than anyone else ever could.

“You really should stop gambling,” she stated matter-of-factly. Coming from her, that was more of a conservation effort on her part. Gambling was a dangerous habit… people wanted their money. If he gambled more than he had, some unsavory characters would settle with his life instead. It didn’t get them their money back, but it might make them feel better.

She didn’t know about the stealing. Or maybe she did… Zanje was the cleverest person he’d ever met. “Not gonna happen. The only thing better than a lot of money is  _ even more money. _ Speaking of money—I’m going to need an advance.”

“For what? All you have to do is go out and conk a guy good on the head and drag him in.”

“I don’t expect you to understand all of the intricacies involved in my esteemed profession”—she scoffed at him—“but that’s not how it works.”

“How does it work then?”

He blinked. “Do you want to go find another guy to literally kill for you? You’re pretty, but that’s a tall order. Even I sometimes have my doubts.” She didn’t so much as twitch. “Okay, maybe I don’t. Still. You need money to get money. That’s natural law. And I’m broke.”

“How broke?” she grumbled. His eyes fell upon the decaying skeleton in the corner. Her line of vision followed his. “I’ll give you a quartroy of gold.” She started digging in her fawn leather bag.

He glowered. “Really? That’s all you’re going to invest in our new business?”

“It’s  _ my _ business,” she corrected.  _ “You _ work for me.” His ears pricked at the jingle of money. It was a song that always went straight through his heart. Too bad his traitorous heart could never decide if it loved the money or the woman with the money more. Things might have been simpler if it had. His eyes drifted half closed, soothed by the prospect of riches. She counted coins into her hand. He counted, too, leaning forward and trying to make sure she didn’t short him. She passed over the coins to him. When he reached, she took her hand back a bit. Their eyes met. “We will never be equals in this. I  _ own _ you. If the day ever comes when you betray me, Berge, no one but Bones over there will ever know you existed, and he doesn’t look very chatty.” Her hand fell back to its original position.

He took the money. Of course he took the money. 


End file.
